


Rosy-Fingered Selene

by inabathrobe



Category: Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Greek and Roman Mythology, Literary RPF
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabathrobe/pseuds/inabathrobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say, then and later, that madness and magic come in the month of Boedromion.  The sea cooks and boils.  The air singes and curls.  In the nights, gods walk the earth beside men.  The fair-haired goddess, laughter-loving Aphrodite, comes to her then, sitting in the courtyard, weaving with her hands as her mind flies free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rosy-Fingered Selene

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storm_queen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storm_queen/gifts).



They say, then and later, that madness and magic come in the month of Boedromion. The sea cooks and boils. The air singes and curls. In the nights, gods walk the earth beside men. The fair-haired goddess, laughter-loving Aphrodite, comes to her then, sitting in the courtyard, weaving with her hands as her mind flies free. She cannot see—the moon is thin—she does not need to. The goddess is clad in mist, but she shines with divine radiance nevertheless and her deep-folded mantle shivers with many-colored threads.

"Mistress goddess," Sappho says, "well-met, though you were unlooked for."

She creeps across the courtyard, that innermost nook of the house, and touches Sappho's chin, tilts it up so it catches in the moonlight. Sappho knows who she is; they have danced together at the festivals after many cups of wine. In the dark-silhouetting night, she whispers the words, "This will be your portion: as long as they speak the name of Achilles, as long as they sing the songs of Hesiod, as long as the fame of Alkman burns bright, they will know _your_ name, too, the only woman among so many men. And they will hymn you forever, speaking your words as talismans against their evils. Your words will always be well-crafted, and your lines will fall one to another.

"But, for this," the long-ankled goddess says, "you will spend all your mortal days, which will seem long, though you humans are but short-lived, in heartache and alone. You will have no lover and no child worthy of you."

"And if I wish it otherwise? Would you let me trade all my winged words for a faithful love?"

"You are not Achilles," the Cyprian goddess speaks in answer. "You were not given a forked fate."

"And will I have a blooming husband and sticky-fingered children?"

Richly-throned Aphrodite holds up a finger and presses it to Sappho's lips. "This, you must discover for yourself. Zeus, father of gods and men, has long held us in silence about the paths which mortal men walk."

She pours down a warm tear, and the golden-haired goddess wipes it away. Sappho speaks then with honey-sweet words, "But have I not always sacrificed choice victims upon your fragrant altars? Have I not burnt glistening fat and sent the smoky savor winging up to the heavens? And do I not sing your praises with my every word? And so will you grant me this one request?"

The wile-weaving goddess's eyes flash beneath her darkened brows. "You, lovely Sappho, supplicate me in all matters of love, but I keep unkind to you. I will tell you one more thing, whatever you wish."

"And if it is a gift?"

"That too will I grant you."

"A kiss," Sappho says, "from your honey-sweet lips."

The fair-haired goddess laughs. "Even this, my Sappho," she says, "I shall give you." She stoops down, towering above mortal men, and her radiance burns into Sappho like a fire catching a child's hand, held too close, and her immortal lips, red like finger-pricking roses curling in her sacred groves, press against Sappho's mouth, and the laughter echoes through her head. It is chaste, or it would be with a mortal woman, whose lips soon grow cold, but it runs through her like a bolt of lightning and leaves her heart loud thundering in her breast after.

Sappho catches the goddess's gleaming-white hand. "Patron goddess, will even this love of ours run its course and then run dry like a well in summer? Shall I end my days singing to the muse of empty river beds?"

She is like a whirlwind or a wild fire, but she stays still in that moment, stilled by Sappho's hand upon hers. "Some wells run very deep, lovely Sappho," blessed Cyprian whispers, and she turns to go from there, covering her face in a veil like the star-strewn sky reaching toward Lydia. Her footsteps ring even up to the burning ether, and though she walks, Sappho must run to keep in step, catching at her many-folded veil.

"But do not leave me here alone so soon."

The long-ankled goddess falters. Hers is not a silver tongue, for all she is a goddess of many twists and turns. "Even as all others shall leave you, sailing to Lydia and Attica and lands far beyond, dear Sappho, so long as you burn myrrh upon my altars and send the savor of thigh bones soaring up, I will watch you as you weave at your loom, unloved and unkept, and you will wait like Penelope for the lover who never comes. You are mine, my Sappho, and I shall keep you."

"And will you ever come back to me again?"

Golden-haired Aphrodite traces the deepening lines of Sappho's face, her fingertips warm, and she says, "Not soon, for I do not tread the earth lightly. But you will see me in the shadows of days and the faces of lovers and your own shimmering reflection upon the salt sea." She lays a hand upon Sappho's bare head, stroking her dark hair. "But gods must not lie beside mortal women. This much I learned long ago and not easily."

"I would watch Troy burn and limp with both my legs for such a gift, blessed Aphrodite."

"But there will be no more Anchises, and even I must forsake you in this way: that you may weave your verses and run your fingers over the memory of my kiss but must lie upon your bed alone or comforted by some mortal breast.

"And there will be many cold and unfeeling shoulders to lay your sleeping head upon. But loneliness in company is lonelier still, lovely Sappho." And she is gone then, alone in the dark night, first of many.

"Not so lonely," Sappho says to unlistening air, "for my verses will keep me warmer still, and the memories of loves lost are often sweeter, though they are tinged with bitterness." For laughter-loving Aphrodite is always bittersweet.


End file.
